


They

by shrdmdnssftw



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrdmdnssftw/pseuds/shrdmdnssftw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort of post apocalyptic drabble that I wrote about, forgot about, found and remembered that I actually liked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They

**Author's Note:**

> This was written late last year. I haven't written MCR in a while, but I really like how this turned out and so I decided to post it as a drabble.

> **They’re all fucking the same, folding to the norm, into the fold that keeps them going and going. On and on, and one by one they become the selfsame face, the same race and the same way of life. YOU are making this possible and while that’s all that you’ll ever need, I am greedy. I want out of here. I want to be something different and feel something real. Something other than this numbness that you just accept and something other than the ways that they can detect my correspondence. I want to be something noticeable and new, different from you and you and you.**
> 
> **You’ve all given in, and I want to be.**
> 
> **Not them.**

The words are typed up neatly, 100 pages of the same message. He’s pretty sure that it has all but broken his typewriter by now, copying out each letter, word, paragraph bit by bit. It will be worth it though. He’s planning to go out tonight. Blending in is getting harder each day. They have literally started to change form, so he’s taken to removing his piercings and wearing long sleeves over his sleeves. Sleeves bright and shouting one message. Look. Look at me and see how I’m different.

But he’ll need to lay low tonight. He has a tin can of glue and a paint brush and exactly one hour between when the masses will start grocery shopping and when they start filing through the checkouts. It works with an eerie synchronicity, and sometimes he watches at night. The beep-whirr-chck of items being scanned and packed and loaded into identical brown bags, which will be put in identical station wagons for the mother to take them home. Home where her family will be waiting and the table set and the kids having done their homework. He used to be one of those clockwork kids, cycling into school day in and day out, smiling and nodding and following on. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning. But then his father fell out of sync and all that happened was a new man came into his place. That’s when Frank realised how this town worked. A machine of a city, ticking on like masterful clockwork. If one cog breaks, replace it with another.

He wants to break the whole machine.

Frank pastes on a smile, slicks his hair back like every other man on the street. Brushes his shoes clean, polishes them. Irons the crease into his pants. For all they will know, he’s another one on his way to the late night shifts. He packs the sheets and tin and brush into a briefcase, clicks it shut and drops the blackout curtains in his apartment. The last thing he needs is curious neighbours. Although, he’s no longer sure if they have curiosity, or if the pills have taken that away too. Smiling pulls his skin tight against the wind and there’s the irrational worry in the back of his mind that he will stretch and break and the facade will shatter.

It hasn’t yet.


End file.
